


Behind the clouds is the sun still shining

by accol



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (as an au flash), AU flashes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Businessmen, First Time Blow Jobs, Haircuts, Homeless Bucky Barnes, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, amputee bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accol/pseuds/accol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Steve falls from the helicarrier, he dreams of Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the clouds is the sun still shining

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomorerippedfuel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomorerippedfuel/gifts).



> Happy birthday, nomorerippedfuel!
> 
> Title from the poem "The Rainy Day" by Longfellow. Many thanks to lsdme for beta.

Air rushed past him.  Blood dried instantly on his face, his neck, his knuckles.  Time stopped as he fell toward the Potomac.  

 

* * *

 

Steve tucked his serving tray under his arm and tried not to gawp at the new guy washing dishes.

Stringy hair hung down in front of his face.  

“Order up, American Pie,” Nick interrupted, whacking his spatula against the grill to get Steve’s attention.  

Steve aimed a withering look at their cook. Nick shot right back with a wink from his good eye.  He tossed in an unnecessarily toothy grin as a bonus.  

“Ha ha,” Steve grumbled.  Persistence doesn’t mean a person can get a nickname to stick to you, and Steve hated that one.   He slid the plates onto his tray.  

 

****

 

Black and gray ink wrapped around his arm.  Where his skin was wet, it shone silver.  When he flexed his hands beneath the water, the definition of his muscles stood out like he was cast from iron.  

“Do I know you?”  The voice came from behind the hair.  The arms didn’t stop their work.  

The curl and cut of that tattoo had Steve tongue tied.  They didn't know each other.  Not as far as Steve remembered.  But there's that thing they say about first laying your eyes on a person who matters...

“Steve meet James.  James meet Steve.  Now you’re best buddies.   _Order up_.”  Nick’s spatula clanged hard enough that Steve almost flinched. 

James froze at the noise, just for a split second.  

 

****

 

It was sweltering in the back of the restaurant.  Summer had shown up overnight, landing squarely on Brooklyn.

Nick was more ornery than usual, whacking utensils on every surface he could reach when the rest of them weren’t working at the right clip.  Which, in Nick’s opinion, was nearly always.

Steve put an ice cube in his cheek and tried not to perspire through his shirt.  Made the customers a little uncomfortable to think that their soup was more sweat than stock.

The air shimmered in the corner by the sink.  Steam rose from the sprayer.  Steve cringed thinking of the torture James’ hands were withstanding.  James kept at his job, though, even when sweat dripped off the ends of his hair into the water.  

Steve was transfixed again.  He rolled the ice over his tongue.

Sharply alert eyes glanced over at him.  “You want him to wallop you next?”  

The ice cube crunched between Steve’s teeth.  He walked over and slid a stack of plates into the hot water.  It wasn’t even a thinly veiled excuse.  He needed a reason to get close, even for just a second.  He didn’t know why he did.  This man fascinated him.

James’ hands slowed their pace.  He reached through the water and took the first plate from Steve’s fingers.  A blast of heat rocked Steve on his feet.  It wasn’t the weather that did it.  

“Clean cut guy like you shouldn’t get his hands dirty,” James said quietly.  

Steve shrugged and handed him another plate beneath the water.  “Not that clean cut.”

From behind the hair there was a soft chuckle.  “That right?”

“Could be.”

“Huh.  Blond Bombshell has a dark side.”

That was another nickname he should have hated.  Steve’s cheeks heated in the moist air.  Their hands brushed during the next plate handoff.  “Not so much dark, as… hidden.”

There was a pause.  James scrubbed at an already clean plate.  “I know how that is.  Your hidden stuff need looking into?”

Nick’s tongs ricocheted off the strainer hanging above their heads.  

“Ain’t gonna wash itself,” Steve said in a low voice as he dried his hands on his apron.

 

****

 

Steve prayed that the alley would be a notch cooler than the sweatshop of a kitchen they worked in.  He had a five minute break and he was going to take every last second of it.

Cool night air washed over him when he stepped outside.  A groan was out of him before he could stop it.

Low laughter came from under the shadow on the opposite wall.  The toes of James’ boots were the only things in the light from the door.

“Smoke?” he asked.  He jerked the pack of cigarettes, making one stand up for Steve.

“Nah, never did.  Asthma when I was a kid.”  Steve wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

James flicked the rest of his mostly unsmoked cigarette down the alley.  “Habit from the Army.”  He stepped away from the wall, and Steve watched the last of the smoke roll from between his lips.  “One of the vices I didn’t have to keep hidden.”

Blood thudded in Steve’s ears.  “Pretty tight quarters over there?”

Those lips curled up into a smile.  “There?  Not so much, but here.  Here, they are definitely tight.”

“Roommates?”

“Nope,” James said, still smiling.

Another pair of tongs came flying out of the alley doorway and clattered against the concrete.  “Break’s over!”

 

****

 

The night had turned misty by the time the restaurant was closed and cleaned up.  Every pair of tongs was washed and carefully hidden inside the walk-in fridge.  Steve was still laughing about it.

James stopped under the awning, looking out at the wet street.  Steve snuck a glance at him while he locked up.  Must’ve been the Army training that made him stand so still… and gave him that incredible ass.

“You think it’s slippery?” Steve blurted out, still looking at James’ backside.

James turned toward him, taking too long to answer.  He looked Steve over.  “Might be,” he finally said.

Steve cleared his throat, pocketed his keys, and stood up straighter and taller than usual.  “Try it out?”

“You got a raincoat?”  James was closer.

“Back at my apartment.”

“Far?”

 

* * *

 

Steve’s vision was blurry.  The wind whipped around him.  Sunlight was dimmed by the shadow of the helicarrier.  It was like sinking beneath the ocean again.

This time it was his heart that ached with the cold.

It was Buck up there.  

 

* * *

 

Steve woke up on a Tuesday thinking about the guys from Sam’s support group.  Most of them lived in the suburbs and had family to support them even when the nightmares got bad.  But there were a few that lived on the streets, moving from one shelter to the next.

When he got to the barbershop, Steve carefully wrote out a sign for the window:  

_FREE_

_haircuts_

_shaves_

_FOR VETS_

****

 

It was raining.  Business was slow when Congress was out of session, so Steve sat down for an early lunch.

The bell jangled before he could take a bite.

 

****

 

The man dripped on the floor inside the door.  He was a mass of nondescript color.  One sleeve hung empty.  He angled his body to make a fast escape a contingency.

Steve forced himself not to stare.  He put down his sandwich.

“Haircut?”

The man looked up from beneath his long hair.  A scarf covered his mouth.  “Saw your sign.”  He flicked his eyes toward the window.

Steve nodded.  “Free to vets.  Take your coat?  Cup of coffee?”

One curt nod was the response.  

Steve approached slowly with his hands in clear view.  He stopped just past arm’s reach.  Quietly, “I’m going to go behind you and lift your coat off at the shoulders.  That ok with you?”

Those sharp eyes met his for a long moment and then softened.  Another curt nod.  

The scarf slipped down when Steve removed the man’s coat.  His cheeks and chin bore several weeks’ worth of scraggly hair.  There was no gray in it.  He was young, even if his gaze said he’d seen too much.

“Have a seat.  Let me get you that coffee.”

He eyed the chair warily.

 

****

 

Coffee with extra sugar and a healthy dollop of creamer threatened to jostle out of his cup when he jolted.  

“Sorry,” Steve said.  “I should have warned you.”  He held his hands up from where he’d been reaching toward the back of the man’s head.  “You tell me when, and then I’m going to use my fingers and a brush to see what I’m working with.”

His hand was steady again, and he took a long sip.  He never took his eyes off of Steve in the mirror.  He leaned forward and put the cup on Steve’s counter.  Then he reached up and peeled away his scarf.

“When,” he said.

Steve nodded and reached out.  

 

****

 

Steve leaned the chair back, bracing the man’s neck against the lip of the sink.    

“Shampoo first.  Then we’re going to tackle those tangles.  Swear it won’t smell like a flower shop.  You don’t seem like the flower shop type.  I’ll try to be gentle with the pulling.  Just warning you, those snarls are in there good.”  Steve kept up the chatter even though it wasn’t his usual way.  He figured that this guy would appreciate knowing where Steve was even when he couldn’t turn his head to see.

Grease and dirt beat the first round of shampoo like a one-punch KO.  Steve wondered how long this guy had been on the streets.  When had he come back to the States?  Where had he been?  What had he seen?  Or done?

The man cleared his throat.  “Can’t remember when someone did this for me.  Maybe not since I was a kid.  Back home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Used to be New York.  Brooklyn.  Now, I don’t know.  Nowhere.”  His brow furrowed.  

Steve massaged the second round of shampoo through his hair.  He kept the faucet running.  That sound always relaxed him.  He thought maybe it’d do the same for his guest.

 

****

 

“Ready?” Steve asked.  He was standing about four feet to the man’s right side.  Steve held up the scissors.

The man stiffened.  

Steve put down the scissors.  “Clippers instead?”

A nod.

“What the gentleman requests,” Steve said with a smile and a little bow.  

The man snorted.  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  

 

****

 

Steve wondered if there would be permanent finger marks in the arm of his chair.  Using the clippers on his neck had been a harrowing experience for both of them even with the comb between the blades and his skin.  

For Steve, the shock came as the hair fell away from the man’s face.  

He was beautiful.

 

* * *

 

It _was_ him on that dying helicarrier, looking down at Steve through the gash in the side.

Bucky jumped in after him.

Steve didn’t even feel himself slam into the river.

 

* * *

 

“Steve!  Get over here, you doofus.  Stevie!”

The sky had opened up and the gentle afternoon sunshower had turned into a monsoon.  

They were between meetings when it hit.  Steve was satisfying his hot dog craving at the cart in Columbus Circle.  

“No fucking cabs anywhere,” James said from underneath his briefcase.  “Steve!  For Christ’s sake, ditch the dog.”

“Never ditching you, Buck,” Steve smiled around his lunch.  

James stopped looking for a cab and stared at Steve.  

“Steve Rogers, you sap.  Sloppy, sentimental, screwed up… Get over here.”

He grabbed Steve’s hand and led him sprinting for the subway entrance.  Steve laughed the whole way like they were kids again and this was the open fire hydrant on a July day.

 

* * *

 

He was Captain America, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sore.  

The kettle whistled.  He filled a hot water bottle.

Steve laid face down on his bed and put the bottle on his lower back.  He dozed thinking of Bucky up there.  Maybe he’d recognized him.  He had to have recognized him.  He jumped in after him.  

 

****

 

Steve found a cup of still-hot tea waiting for him when he got back to the kitchen.

He let the warmth of the mug seep into his hands.  Maybe for once, finally, that place inside him would thaw.  

 

****

 

He didn’t chase after Bucky.  There was no knowing where he’d be.  Nearby, Steve figured… or hoped.

So he ran his usual route.  He did his laundry in the basement like he always did.  He sent a postcard to Peggy at the nursing home.  It had a picture of a snow-covered New York on it, and he signed it _Love, Steve_.  If she had a good day, she’d understand what it meant.

The next day he woke up and did his routine again.  And the next, and the next.

 

****

 

It was poking out of his mail slot.  A postcard, but it wasn’t from Peggy.  The Smithsonian Castle was on the front.  Nothing was on the back.

 

****

 

Steve changed the route of his run the next day and every day after that.  He ran down the Mall and through the Smithsonian’s rose garden.  

Kind of like Bucky.  A little thorny, but you still liked having him around.  

In Bucky’s voice, Steve thought, “Describes you too.  Don’t pretend you’re some kind of saint.”  Steve laughed hard enough he had to stop running and brace himself against a tree.

“Ah, Buck,” Steve said to the empty air in front of him.  “I miss you.”

 

****

 

When he got back to his apartment this time, the door was unlocked.  Steve stood in the hallway holding the doorknob.  He rested his forehead against the wood.

There was a lot riding on faith.  If the Winter Soldier was here to finish the job, then that was fine with Steve.  He’d let it happen, sink into that darkness again.   But if it was Bucky here, then he had to have faith things were looking up.

He closed the door softly behind him and turned the deadbolt.  

 

****

 

Steve shed his clothes on his way to the bathroom.  Shoes and socks by the door.  Shirt in the hallway.  Shorts in the living room.  Underwear in front of the shower.  

He made the water as hot as he could stand it and stepped under the spray.  It ran across his eyelids.  Waiting was hard.

 

****

 

He reached blindly to turn the shower off.  When his hand closed around the knob, the curtain rings slid along the bar.  Cold air ran up Steve’s back as Bucky stepped inside.

“I followed the breadcrumbs.”  Bucky’s voice made Steve want to run up to the roof and shout.

“Is that some kind of joke about my buns?”

Hands circled Steve’s hips.  “No,” he said softly.  Steve could hear the smile in the word.  He turned him around and pulled him close.  “I’m just saying I followed them home.”

A thrill ran through Steve.  “Took you long enough.  Water was starting to get cold.”

“Oh, you little--”  

Bucky jammed his fingers into Steve’s armpit and wiggled them.  Steve yelped with laughter.  They’d done this tons as kids.  Steve would say something saucy and Bucky would pin him down and tickle him until he said uncle.  Bucky remembered.

He was naked too, Steve realized.  Skin against skin was something they only had dared a few times.  There’d been skinny dipping once when they’d jumped the fence to the city pool after midnight.  Bucky french kissed him there for an hour until they both pruned up.  Then there’d been swimming in the ocean under the Coney Island Pier.  Steve had rutted against Bucky next to a piling until they were both panting and spent.  

Their laughter subsided.

“Is it really you, Buck?  You’re in there?”  

“Getting there.”

“I’ll help.”

“You better.”  Bucky’s words were spoken against Steve’s lips.  He said them again along Steve’s ribs, and at the point of Steve’s hip.  

“Pinky promise,” Steve gasped.  He threaded his fingers with Bucky’s metal ones and held on for dear life.  He pushed the hair away from his face to watch.  They’d never got a chance to do this before.

Bucky hummed the anthem, because he was a jerk.  Steve came ‘til he saw stars.


End file.
